


I've Swallowed All the Words That You Said

by Catchclaw



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Daddy Kink, First Time, Humor, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Pollen, Snark, Very Silly Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 19:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9621908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Leonard McCoy is not a dirty old man, damn it, no matter what kind of filth he’s currently spilling in his captain’s ear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when Areiton sends me pretty pictures of Chris Pine.

Leonard McCoy is not a dirty old man, Jim Kirk tells himself, desperate. He’s not. No matter what kinda filth he’s currently spilling in his Captain’s ear.

“Your ass, Jim,” he’s purring as Kirk tows him across the party, “have I told you how fucking perfect it is?”

Kirk shoulders his way through the crowd clustered by the doors to the portico. “Not in the last five minutes, no.”

“Well,” McCoy hums, his mouth hot on Kirk’s neck. “Anyway. I’d much rather show you.”

They make it outside, fucking finally, out of earshot of all the diplomats crammed in the ballroom of the palace on Carasio Prime, a planet whose regent has just gotten himself king’d after several decades of pointless, bloody combat, and the Federation's turned out in force to celebrate it, this unexpected embrasure of peace. Komack is here, and Flynn, and the Federation Vice Consul, and a complement of officers from half a dozen starships and for some reason, this is the moment that McCoy’s chosen to let his inner perv fucking _fly_.

“It’s not like I’d never noticed before,” he’s saying, his dress boots catching the cobblestones. “I mean, five years of knowing you, Jim, seeing you every damn day. It’s not like I’m blind here, honey.”

“Honey?!” Kirk barks, dumping McCoy on the balustrade. “What the fuck, Bones.”

It’s dark outside, and hot. There are a few people scattered here and there, gazing out at the hills that huddle around the castle. The three moons are bright dragons in the sky, lighting the place up as they stagger in and out of the clouds, and fuck, it's _hot_ , Jim thinks, tugging uneasy at his dress blues. Must’ve gone up 20 degrees since the party started. And the way that Bones is staring at him doesn’t help. Kirk’s never seen his eyes look like that, swollen embers that eat up the dark. It’s goddamn bizarre.

“If you wanted to get me alone, kid, all you had to do was ask nice. The manhandling was wholly unnecessary." A slow smile. "Though very much appreciated, believe me.”

McCoy's voice is stuck in this weird, low timbre. It sounds like he’s drunk at the bottom of a well.

It sounds like he’s horny as hell.

It sounds like Jim Kirk should be bolting for the hills, shouting for his ship, _something_ , and yet here he is, keeping Leonard from making a fool of himself in front of the top brass of the Fleet, in front of their friends and their shipmates.

Kirk deserves a fucking medal for this.

“Damn it,” he says, as McCoy oozes towards him, reaches for him like he has every damned right. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Wrong?” McCoy says, syrupy drawl. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, sweetheart. There ain’t a thing wrong with me.”

He’s got his hands on Kirk’s hips before Jim can blink, and they’re strong, Leonard’s fingers. Steady as hell. Surgeon’s hands, Kirk thinks, dim, swinging his head just in time to dodge a kiss.

“You’ve been drugged,” he says, shoving against McCoy’s shoulders. “Or whammied, or something, Bones. Come on! This isn’t you.”

Leonard stops. Lets Jim’s hands settle, lets them still. “Jim?” he says.

A question. The first moment of uncertainty in twenty minutes. Oh, gods, Kirk thinks. Thank fuck.

“You tried to kiss me,” Kirk says, as gentle as he can manage. “By the windows in there. Don’t you remember? Right after the ceremonial toast?”

A furrowed brow, fingers flexing on Jim’s waist. “Huh?”

“We were talking to Spock. And the ambassador from Altair VI, yeah? The one with the funny beard? And then you went full-on pervert on me, out of nowhere. You, um--”

McCoy looks confused. Like, seriously so. Like it hurts. “Jim. What’d I do?”

Kirk pats his shoulders. First one, then the other. He wants to let go, he does, but it seems safer to hang on, to keep Leonard tethered to some sense of here and now. “You shoved me against the goddamn curtains, Len, and you said: _I know just what to do with you mouth, kid. I’ve known since the moment I saw you_.”

McCoy’s eyes drop hard to Jim’s lips and ok, maaaaaybe singing the verse back verbatim was not the best rhetorical choice. “Mmmm,” McCoy says, sort of rumbles, cobwebs swept away in a tsunami of sex. “Yeah, I have.”

“See?” Kirk says, semi-desperate. “That’s what I mean. This isn’t you! Somebody’s fucking with us. They’ve gotta be.”

McCoy grins, the corners of his mouth turning in this sneaky way that makes Jim think of dark alleys, of kisses exchanged, but no names.

Which is--?

“Mmmm,” Leonard rumbles again, sliding his body against Kirk’s. Hello. “Fucking with us, huh? Maybe they are. But I gotta say, honey: I don’t mind.”

“What is it with you and the pet names?” Kirk gets out, the second before McCoy makes a play for his fly and this, Jim thinks, this is absolute grounds for a freak out, for a shouting match, for a hard elbow to the solar plexus. But it’s also McCoy, damn it, the one person who’s (repeatedly) seen him at his worst and not fled in fucking terror, who’s stuck by him, who’s kept him company in the darkest of hours and who always brings booze to toast the good ones, and Kirk’ll be damned if he’ll chuck all of that over just because his best friend is (temporarily) determined to fuck him.

Leonard nudges him back against the balustrade, Kirk’s ass hitting stone. “Let me,” he says, firecracker. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Right here."

It’s not Jim’s fault that his dick is not totally opposed to the notion. It’s not. It’s the heat--of the air, of McCoy’s breath on his cheek. That’s all.

Fuck, they need to be someplace else.

“Leonard,” he says, soothing, petting McCoy’s chest. “Not here. I know just the place. Inside.”

McCoy’s eyes flicker and he makes this little noise, frustrated and hot. God, it’s hot. Kirk’s knees wobble. Shit, he feels faint. Maybe he just needs some water.

“Show me,” Leonard says.

He lets Kirk take him by the hand and lead him down the stairs, off the portico, around the side of the castle, and back in the front door where they’d processed in with the whole dolled-up gaggle less than--what? A hour ago? Well, nobody’s there now, not even Federation security, which is fucking strange, Jim thinks. But they’ve gotta be clustered upstairs, right? Forming a ring around the bigwigs drinking wine and partying for peace.

Yeah. That’s gotta be it.

In the hall, there’s light. But barely. Jim closes his eyes for a second, McCoy a sexed-up kite at the end of his arm. He tries to picture the quick tour he’d been dragged on earlier in the evening, pinned uneasily at Komack's side. A left, he thinks, and then a right. Double doors. Yeah. The new king’s private study. That’ll be perfect.

For, uh--?

He tugs at Leonard’s hand. “This way,” he says. “Bones. Come on.”

What he should do, some part of him knows, is put the kibosh on this shit and go find Spock. Spock, who--

Who--

Who hadn’t fucking blinked, had he, when McCoy had gotten frisky, hadn’t batted a damn eye when the doctor started spewing dirty shit in front of an ambassador’s party and in fact--in fact!--had called for another glass of wine.

Spock never did that. Drank. And sure as hell didn’t ken to his fellow officers getting familiar in public.

Oh hell, Kirk thinks, sinking, hell and fucking no. Shit. Maybe the doctor isn't the only one who’s been affected by--whatever the hell's going on.

Goddamn it.

His thoughts are distracting, like a barn door slamming, and he pulls McCoy around the turn too fast. They careen like drunken cadets and Kirk bounces off the wall, hard. But Leonard catches him, bless him, wraps his arms around Kirk’s body and for all the strange that’s happened, all the downright bizarre, everything is fucking aces until McCoy moans, moans like the scratchy suck of Kirk’s dress uniform is the best thing he’s ever felt, the sweetest thing he’d ever dug his nails into.

He edges Kirk against the wall, and--

“Oh,” Jim says, dragging the sound across McCoy’s mouth. “Oh, fuck.”

\--and then they’re kissing, the kind of desperate, fumbling dance that makes Kirk think of three in the morning, of bars closing and back doors and boys whose daddies should sure as hell know better than to let them out alone, so late in the long, dark night.

He gets his hands in McCoy’s hair and pulls and works in a little more tongue and maybe this isn’t a favor. Maybe this isn’t him playing along. Maybe this is really fucking good.

“I want,” he gets out, as McCoy catches the clasps of his jacket and yanks hard, shit, bares his skin to the shadows, and he can feel the ardor that he’s been holding in, the force of it that he can barely contain. “Bones, I _want,_ please, I--”

“Shhhh,” Leonard says, stroking Jim’s ribs soft, so easy. “I know. I know what you need, darlin.’ Come here. Lemme show you.”

Which is how Jim Kirk ends up perched on a king’s desk, his pants around his ankles, his legs spread, his arms knotted around his best friend’s neck as said best friend nuzzles his throat and tells him how beautiful he is, how sweet, how _good_ \--

McCoy nips at his ear. “Good boy. That’s it. Look at you, honey. Fuck, you’re gorgeous. And you’re so good for me, aren't you? Hmm? Yeah, you are. Such a good boy."

“Yeah,” Kirk says, his breath gone, his head back, his knees tight around McCoy’s hips. “Yes. Fuck yes.”

“So good,” McCoy says, soft. His eyes are in Kirk’s, sunlight skating through the clouds. “Come on, baby. Show me.”

And he tugs out the most exquisite orgasm, the kind that makes the cosmos seem small compared to the pleasure that envelops Kirk’s body, that burrows in and sings out and leaves a fucking mess in its wake.

He feels fuzzy and glorious and stupid with it, how good it feels to find McCoy’s mouth again, to knit their fingers together over McCoy’s fucking furious cock and stroke until Leonard’s half collapsed on him, his forehead on Kirk’s shoulder as he fucks into their fists, gasping: “Jim. _Jim_.”

He pets McCoy’s neck, wet, turns his lips down the curve of the man’s ear. “Please, daddy,” he murmurs. “Let me have it.”

McCoy makes a strangled noise, his hand going tight on Kirk’s arm, that damn ring cutting into Kirk’s flesh. 

Kirk chuckles. “Oh. You like that, huh?”

McCoy's jacket’s busted open at last, his skin singing heat against Kirk’s. He smells like dirty spices and sex and his cock, Kirk thinks, winding his thumb over the slit, through the slick, his cock is goddamn fantastic.

“Fuck,” Leonard says, nine kinds of desperate. “Goddamn it, you--”

Kirk knocks McCoy’s hand away, sets his own pace. “Yeah. There you go. Feels good, huh? Fuck, you’re so hard, Bones. You feel that?”

A growl. Something that sounds like Kirk’s name.

“This all for me? Hmm? You always get this hot when you think about me? About my mouth? My tongue?” He paints a crazy eight on McCoy’s face. “Uh huh. You think about my tongue on your cock a lot, don’t you?”

“Please,” McCoy says, his voice frayed by a shudder. “Fucking-- _please_ , kid, come on, you--”

“Please what?” Kirk whispers, drawing the sound in time with his fist. Slow, now. Aching. “Hmmm? Tell me what you want from me, daddy.”

Leonard’s hips jerk and his teeth find Kirk’s neck and he comes, fuck, he comes and he comes, like a quasar that swallowed a warp drive.

“Hot damn,” Kirk says, cheerful, when McCoy’s able to stand on his own. Mostly. “Who knew you were such a pervert?”

McCoy glares at him, a look 90 percent belied by the spunked-out ruin that is his dress uniform. The blissful grin doesn’t help sell it, either. “Oh, excuse me, pot calling kettle. Since when do you have any room to tag somebody else as a perv?”

Kirk sits up, trying to work out the kinks in his back. “Since I found out why you like calling me ‘kid.’”

McCoy sputters. “You--I--Jim, I don’t--”

Jim shoves out a hand and Leonard takes it, helps him down off that damnable desk. “You don’t really think you’re my daddy? Yeah, Len. I got that.” He scrabbles with his pants, tips up, kisses McCoy on the chin. “But it’s fucking adorable how hard you get off on it.”

Leonard's hands find his face. “Adorable, huh?”

Kirk’s eyes flutter. “Uh huh.” He catches McCoy's hips, smooths his palms inside Bones’ jacket, up his back.

Bones shakes his head, slides his knuckles over Kirk’s stomach. Lower. “I don’t know about you,” he says, working Kirk’s cock back out of his pants, “but this doesn’t feel adorable to me. It feels like”--he licks wicked at the edge of Jim’s mouth--”it feels like you need another round already, kid.”

Jim laughs, the sound falling into a sigh as McCoy flexes his fingers, makes a fist. “It does, huh?”

“Yeah, it does.” McCoy kisses him quick, fast and deep, and starts jacking him, hard and fucking perfect. “Christ, boy, what’s it gonna take to keep you satisfied?”

“Oh, god,” Kirk groans, and that’s when Scotty fucking kicks down the door.

 

________________

 

“Technically, sir, it wasn’tae me. It was Lieutenant Nadal who put his boot in.”

Kirk rubs a hand over his eyes. Leans back in an abandoned ballroom chair. “Either way, it was work well done, Mr. Scott. Property damage notwithstanding.”

Speaking of. The ballroom's a goddamn wreck. Tables turned over, glasses smashed, clothes scattered everywhere. There’s an Admiral’s coat in the chandelier, for fuck’s sake. And is that a crown?

Scotty nods. The tips of ears are still burning, but his face doesn’t match his shirt anymore, so that’s progress. “Indeed. When we couldn’t find you up here, Captain, and when you didn’t answer your comm, we got worried. Especially after we located Commander Spock in that linen closet.”

Kirk squints over at the dais. McCoy's there, waving his scanner around Spock’s head. Spock’s jacket's gone. His hair’s a fucking wreck and he’s got some truly impressive nail marks on his back. He looks like a pissed-off bumblebee. “He wasn’t happy to see you, huh?”

“Ah, no, sir. But it was the Vice Consul who was really pissed, if I may say. She pitched one of the king’s guards clear across the room there when he first opened the door. Nearly knocked the lad out, she did.” Scotty laughs. “I guess she wasn’t a ready to give up her ride just yet, if you know what I mean.” He gets a look at Kirk’s face. “Which of course you do and it’s none of my business and I’ll be shutting up now. Sir.”

A sigh. “And we’re sure it was the wine?”

“Aye.” Scotty peers down at his tricorder. “Well, wine-adjacent, anyway. It’s a local preservative, Dr. M’Benga says. Something they use to seal the barrels and the casks and the like. The Carasio folks are immune to its, shall we say, more creative physiological properties. Didn’t even occur to them that other beings might react to it at all. And, to be fair, nae everybody did. Just well on, oh, 97 percent. And it seems to be short-lived, sir, none the same.”

“Great,” Kirk says. “A temporary unintentional mass poisoning. That’s something, I guess.” He looks up. “Bet you’re glad you drew monitor duty, huh? And missed all the excitement down here.”

“Eh,” Scotty says, gentle shrug. “I dunno. There are worse ways to spend an evening that screwin’ your brains out without a second thought.” He flushes. “Uh, I mean--”

“Never mind.” Kirk gets up. God, he needs a shower. “Look, once Medical gives folks the all clear, I want them beamed aboard immediately. Do it in batches if you have to, Scott. I want us out of here in the next sixty minutes, is that clear?”

“Aye,” Scotty says, a little too kindly for Kirk’s taste. Fuck. He must look like absolute shit. “Why don’t we start with you?”

 

________________

 

He’s busy for a long time, after that.

Turns out unintentional mass poisonings/orgies generate a lot of fucking paperwork. So to speak.

By the time he sets down his stylus and checks the chrono on his desk, it’s halfway into Alpha shift. Damn. He should’ve been on the bridge hours ago.

He reaches for his gold overtunic and hits the comm. “Mr. Scott! I’m on my way up to relieve you.”

“Aye,” Scotty says, sounding none the worse for wear. “I mean, nay. Doctor McCoy’s put you on a rest period, sir. Threatened to chop my balls off if I bothered ya for anything short of a Klingon invasion. And even then, he said, the lads woulda been in peril.” A beat. “Didn’t he tell you?”

“No,” Kirk grits. “He didn’t.”

He calls McCoy’s office, fuming, but there’s no answer. Tries the main lab. The same. And before he knows it, he’s stomping down the corridor towards McCoy’s quarters. He leans on the chime.

“What in the fucking fuck,” McCoy’s voice says through the comm.

“It’s me,” Kirk snaps. “Open the door, you dick.”

The door grumbles and Kirk barrels inside, where it’s--oh. Really dark.

“I was asleep, asshole,” McCoy says. The bedside light hops on, a timid candle, and Bones appears, a soft sketch of his face. “What the hell do you want?”

“You put me on a rest period,” Kirk says.

“Yeah? So? Put everybody who was at Dante’s sex ball on one so they could sleep it off.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

A grunt. “I _did_. Left three messages on your comm. Figured you’d pick ‘em up when you were done with the bureaucratic nightmare part of your evening. Your day. Whichever the hell it is now.”

Kirk’s balloon of angry pops, just like that. “Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” McCoy mimics. He lets his head fall back and the light wavers, hesitates. “Now that you’re done harassin’ me, can I go back to sleep, please? Some of us actually need seven or eight hours, you know, in order to function.”

A grin stretches its way over Kirk’s face. “Some of us?” he says. “You mean, you all of the ancient persuasion?”

“Fuck off,” Leonard says, grumpy by way of amused. “Leave me be.”

It’s an opening, Kirk thinks. Or it could be.

He reaches for the hem of his tunics, tosses black and gold into the dark. Tugs at his boots.

The light warms and McCoy sits up on his elbows. “Excuse me," he says. "What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Kirk thumbs his trousers open, peels them off, dumps them over his boots. “Has it really been that long for you, Bones? Do you need me to explain it to you, step by step?”

McCoy rolls his eyes so hard that Jim can hear it. “What part of _I’m sleeping_ do you not get, son?”

“Oooh,” Jim says, kicking his shorts towards the door, “son, huh? That’s a new one.”

He stands there for a minute, at the edge of the bed.

It’s an opening, maybe. But only if they both decide to go through it.

They stare at each other.

“What’d you say before?” Kirk says, finally. “When you were stoned off your ass? _It’s not like I’d never noticed_ , or some shit?”

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

“Well,” Kirk says, “yeah. Me, too.”

“Hmmm,” McCoy says, long and put upon.

But his lips are turned up and he’s folding the covers back, just enough. “Get in here,” he says.

He’s warm, Bones. Yeah, he is. His arms, his chest, his mouth. Mmmmm.

“Oh no,” McCoy says, pushing Kirk back. “Nuh uh. Sleep first.” He strokes a hand through Kirk’s hair, his smile ridiculous tender. “You be a good boy now and maybe daddy’ll let you play later.”

“See?” Jim says, fucking delighted. “Oh my gods. You’re such a goddamn pervert. It’s beautiful.”

McCoy huffs. “Yeah, well,” he says, tugging Kirk tight against his chest and stealing all the damn blankets. “Shut the fuck up, Captain, sir, and let your old man get some sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Mike Doughty's "Put it Down" because the man makes the best lyrics.


End file.
